Don’t believe a word that idiot Odiferous Harmony has told you. This is not the Planet Sicilia. Sicilia is the same of a single land mass on this planet, separated by other land masses. I’m in a different land entirely. They eat gelato here as well.

Twilight is our friend. When the sun starts to set, the humans can’t see as clearly. It’s a time to scamper and collect the crumbs from their tables.

I’m done with my crumb collecting. I want you. As a mouse prince, I get what I want.

The young human has tried to lock her door, but the lock is broken. Her brute of a brother is constantly banging against it, hitting it, and smashing it. Not that the lock would have stopped me. There are cracks in the walls. Tunnels leading everywhere. I follow one of them into the girl’s room.

She’s sitting up in bed, cradling you in her arms. Perhaps she senses someone wants to take you from her. One of her dolls watches the two of you with unhappy glass eyes. Poor thing, with her ridiculously huge eyes and complete lack of a muzzle, she’s no match for your beauty. Once more, I admire your enormous jaw, although you have a bandage tied around it.

Rage leaves me wanting to gnash and rend! Who did this to you? Was it that girl, who dares to hold you as if you belong to her? The odor of roasted nuts wafts up from your solid body, nestled in her arms. Or it simply the smoke, which clung to the fire, burning with careless peril on the hearth below.

I spring upon the doll, who’s taken completely off guard. Even if she wasn’t, she’s just a doll. Her mistress can’t hear her cry.

Only the human child turns to me, staring at me with oversized eyes very like the doll.

“You think you can break him and get away with it?” I chitter. “Give me the nutcracker or I’ll bite this doll, until she cracks!”

Thursday, September 15, 2016

I'm going to disappear, fading in and out like the Cheshire Cat this weekend. My posting will be sporadic. Which was why I wanted to leave with a snippet.

This poor blog is still being blocked by Facebook, so it hasn't been able to participate in Rainbow Snippets, since April 2016. To make up for it, I like to post snippets here, regardless.

The Cauldron of Eternal Inspiration at inspirationcauldron.wordpress.com is being left with a teaser from 'Aissa and Polyxena'. Therefore, this Cauldron is getting a teaser from my other WIP, 'On the Other Side of the Mask'.

The couple watched the two small heads, as they bobbed up and down, joining a line of other small heads, which formed a couple of lines. Walking straight into the chapel walls of the cathedral, known as Our Blessed Mother of Paradise.

Byron was dimly aware of the attention. He held his head high, refusing to look back, or around. He would live up to his name. Poet, rebel, freedom fighter.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Here I am, responding to another prompt from the amazing @PTWyant! Her prompt for this week are the first two sentences below. To see the entire prompt, go to ptwyant.com.

“Look what followed me home! Can I keep it?” Risella grinned at all the other tall, slender humanoids with purple, pink, blue, or lavender hair.

Dylan swallowed, feeling very short and very human. “Err, hello. I’m Dylan Stuart.”

“Rizzo’s new toy,” another purple haired man? woman said, with a low, silvery laugh. He glided, more than walked over to Dylan, tossing his sunset tresses over his shoulder. They actually glittered with the movement. He reached out to take Dylan’s chin in his hand. “Can you be ridden, or do you fight the bridle?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Dylan said. He tried very hard to keep his voice even, but the words still came out in a low growl. “Humans are no longer the sidhe’s toys, or pets, remember? This was one of the things you agreed to in the treaty.”

“Well, that answers that question,” the purple haired man, Dylan was almost sure he was a man. He eyed the smaller man with interest. “You can be ridden, but you might try to throw your ‘partner’.” His mint green eyes moved for a second to Rizzo. “I wouldn’t mind taking you myself.”

“Yo, Gievann, hands off!” Rizzo said, sharply. With a couple of strides, she reached Dylan’s side. “I asked if I could keep it, not if we could. Prior claims, right?”

“Ah, but he followed you here, uninvited,” Gievann said. He didn’t release Dylan’s chin. “This means the pretty human belongs to whoever claimed him first.” He smiled at Rizzo. “You asked if you could keep him, but you didn’t claim him. Are you sure you’re old enough to be making claims?”

“I was old enough to attend an alien academy!” Rizzo said, bridling. “Plus, I met Dylan first. This makes him mine.”

“Rizzo!” Dylan snapped. “I thought you accepted me as an equal!”

“Heh, you humans are so cute!” Rizzo said. She leaned forward with a grin. As she did, she whispered in his ear, “Play along, you idiot! You followed me home to a sidhe compound, don’t expect everyone here to behave as if they were human!”

Dylan shut up. As Evelyn Stuart’s son, visiting an alien enclave, he was expected to behave diplomatically. He had to accept that the sidhe’s ways weren’t going to be anything like the humans.

It was hard, though, when they treated him like a toy and a possession. How could he respect the sidhe, when they refused to respect him? Even Rizzo was making a big show of patronizing him.

He gritted his teeth and swallowed his anger. If he could just keep his temper, he might learn something here.

Friday, September 9, 2016

Here's one of my two responses to @PTWyant's challenge! To see her prompt, go to ptwyant.com's 'Wednesday Prompts'. This week, it involved a squirrel, a graveyard, and a school.

The mention of a squirrel made me think of Thomas, the boy who makes life so miserable for the twins in Omphalos in 'A Godling for Your Thoughts?' Thomas is not a nice boy, but he is one of Seraphix's chosen. I wanted to develop him further, explore his reasons for being the bully, who sneers at Danyell and Dayell for being pretty.

The squirrel sat on a tombstone. Always watching. Always flicking its tail in a judgmental manner. Its nose twitched in exactly the same way Master Scald’s had.

“What are you wearing, Thomas?” he’d ask. All the while his nostrils would wrinkle and flare at the sight of Thomas wearing a pink cravat.

It hadn’t been Thomas’ choice. It must have been his mother’s. He couldn’t have picked out such a girly piece of clothing himself.

“Trying to be pretty?” Oleander asked with a sneer. As if he should talk, with those high cheek bones and blue black hair. He sat in a desk behind Thomas, so it was impossible to stare at the dark curls at the nape of his neck any more. “Not that you’ll ever succeed with those bat ears and that flattened nose.”

“Of course not! Boys aren’t pretty!” Thomas snarled, only he hadn’t. Not back then. He’d been too busy admiring how Oleander’s hair curled around his ears.

Danyell and Dayell’s curled in the exact same manner. Only their hair was golden, as golden as honey poured from a pitcher in the morning sun. The locks on the top of their head were straighter and lighter. A few curls were actually silver, as if the twins were much older than their smooth, beardless faces and innocent eyes suggested. Death hadn’t touched the twins, while Oleander had carried it in every poisonous word, which sneered on his lips.

Such pretty lips, full and pouting, part of a generous mouth. Not the tiny rosebuds which graced the twins’ heartshaped faces.

Boys shouldn’t be pretty. Boys that were died young, for the gods themselves took a fancy to them. If you wanted to be a man, you couldn’t be pretty.

“Call me pretty and I’ll break your face,” Oleander had warned. Oleander hadn’t really been the boy’s name, but it was perfect for him. A poisonous flower, which blooms beautifully, sickening you with his taste. He’d pushed Thomas against a gravestone, before ravaging Thomas’ mouth with his own.

Thomas wiped his mouth and stared down at the grave stone. One of a hundred tiny grave stones dotting the greensward. His own body was buried among them.

“You should be grateful you got a grave,” the squirrel said, twitching his tail. It spoke with Mr. Scald’s voice. “A pit would have served you halfling monsters better.”

“Shut up,” Thomas growled. He fingered the coin, hanging from a bit of cord around his throat. Its coolness soothed him. Seraphix was with him, breathing in his breast, whispering in his ear. “I’m not dead. I’m alive in Omphalos. I have a family.”

“Chee!” the squirrel said, flicking his tail again. “No one is alive in Omphalos. No one is even real in Omphalos!”

“Shut up!” Thomas yelled. He ripped the coin from its leather ties, only it was no longer a coin. It was a stone. He hurled it in the direction of the squirrel. It cried, knocked off the top of the tombstone, leaving a trail of blood behind.

“What are you doing?”

Danyell was standing in the graveyard. Staring at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“What right do you have to look at me like that?” Thomas yelled. He marched forward, closer to the slighter, smaller boy. That despicably pretty boy with his heartshaped face, parted lips, and innocent eyes, which were so shocked by blood and cruelty. “You've been cut off from the rest of the world, sheltered in your secluded cottage!” He stopped, inches away from Danyell. He longed to reach out and grab the other boy, but he didn’t quite dare touch him. “You know nothing of what the rest of us had to go through! How dare you judge us?”

Danyell didn’t answer for a moment. He looked down at his feet. Silvery golden curls fell forward around his face. Thomas wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked. Stupid thoughts. This boy was everything he despised, everything he looked down at, everything he…no, he wasn’t going to finish that thought. He refused to finish that thought, even as his treacherous brain supplied the word.

Wanted. This boy was everything he wanted.

No, please, Seraphix, no.

“Maybe I don’t understand,” Danyell said, in a low voice. “Answer me this at least.” He looked up to meet Thomas’ eyes. His own were a clear, violet blue, glistening with unspoken questions. “Why attack the squirrel?”

“It wasn’t a squirrel,” Thomas replied. He closed its eyes. “It’s never just a squirrel.” He opened them. Danyell was still there, cocking his head slightly. His brow puckered slightly, as he frowned at Thomas’s answer.

Didn’t like what he heard? Too bad.

“Assuming it’s just a squirrel is like assuming you’re just a boy,” Thomas said, feeling his mouth twist into something uncomfortable. Something ugly. “Consider that, when you’re asking questions.” He reached out. Danyell flinched, but all Thomas did was touch his cheek.

Ah, so this boy was within his reach, if he didn’t attack him. His strange ‘Dance’ wouldn’t begin, unless Thomas approached him with violent intent. That was interesting to know.

Besides, there were other ways to attack someone than just physically. Not to mention more effective.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

'Fairest' was born from many unfinished story fragments. This is one of those fragments.

I couldn’t have hated my stepmother so much, if I hadn’t loved her. She was so beautiful. Vivacious, golden haired, sporting a gown of faerie gossamer and glass slippers, she captivated every single one of us at the ball. She certainly ensnared my poor father, who traveled the entire country with her glass slipper, searching for her, giddy as a schoolboy.

I didn’t want another mother. She smiled at me and gave me a private wink, when no one else was looking.

“I know better than to replace your mother,” she’d tell me, when the two of us were alone. “She was a very great lady, but I hope, with your help, we can awaken some of her old magic.”

Foolish of me, to look at that pretty mortal face and think, maybe, she could resurrect the old magic. One look in my mother’s enchanted mirror and she was lost. I realized my error, as soon as the huntsman pressed his blade against my neck and whispered, “It was your stepmother, who ordered this. She wants your faerie beauty, your faerie blood, your white faerie flesh.”

I could have laughed, even as I cried. I’d been a fool, but so had she. My stepmother never found the hunstman’s body, for I am truly of my mother’s blood. No mere mortal hunstman is a match for me.

I’d underestimated my stepmother, though. She tracked me down to my lair with the poisoned apple and the glass coffin, before returning to her comfortable life as Queen. How terrified she was, when I appeared at the christening of her own daughter. The former princess, turned witch! I had the perfect present for my baby stepsister, a curse. Death, sleeping death at the age of sixteen in the prick of a spindle. The same death the girl’s mother bestowed upon me. The queen tried to stop me, to use her own charms to get out of the curse, using true love and a prince. She even tried to hide her daughter in the very cinders where she used to hide.

All her attempts failed. The girl was no match for my enchantments. I lured her into the woods, under the guide of a fae prince. I have been described as “the fairest of them all”. You’d be amazed at what a charming prince I can be. What I hadn’t counted on was the charm of the girl. She came to me, a delicate, golden haired maid with wide blue eyes, filled with her father’s innocence and her mother’s insight.

“You’re not really a prince, are you? You’re one of the Old Ones,” the princess said. A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

My own reaction surprised me, as I found myself caught by her blue eyed gaze. Once, my own eyes had been like hers. A wave of my own loneliness washed over me, hitting me as hard as when her mother betrayed me.

A tear escaped from my eye. The girl reached out a small hand to brush it away.

“One so beautiful shouldn’t cry,” she said. Her own voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Ah, but one does,” I whispered. “Especially when she realizes she’s no longer beautiful.” I had become a destroyer of beauty. In my loneliess and hatred, I became the woman I swore vengeance upon. Irony upon irony, I set my curse upon my little sister, the very person who could have delivered me from my loneliness.

This princess will fall under the curse. The very boldness that makes her reach out to touch my face means she will reach out to touch the spindle, when the time comes.

Friday, September 2, 2016

I'm missing #RainbowSnippets tomorrow. I've decided to make up for it by posting a little today. Here's a fragment from 'Aissa and Polyxena'. I'm liking Cressida/Briseis more and more, as I write her. :)

“Your companion is as fair as you, Briseis, but she has a man’s boldness. Few can meet my gaze.” He took a step closer, so he was inches away from me. “I’m guessing this is some well born Trojan lady.”

Diomedes reached out to seize my chin. Without thinking about it, I swatted his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” I growled.

“She has man’s spirit as well,” Diomedes said with a sour lack of amusement. “Trojan arrogance is not limited to its men, it seems.”

“This is Princess Polyxena, a noble daughter of Priam, twin to Prince Troile himself,” Cressida said with smooth quickness. She reached out for Diomedes’ hand, intercepting it before it could paw at me again. “Indeed, she has more than her share of spirit, secretly meeting with Achille himself, despite her lover’s affiliation with the enemy camp.” Cressida stroked Diomedes’ fingers, soothing the violence out of each digit. “I’m taking Polyxena to Achille right now.”

Thursday, September 1, 2016

It's hard to choose which draft to use of 'Aissa and Polyxena'. I developed the characters more in the original draft. For instance, here's where Troile first meets 'Aissa' in the original draft.

“What an ugly woman,” Paris said. His nose wrinkled, as he regarded the tall woman approaching us. She was as tall as Hector, or our father, as her robes swished with the purpose of her stride. She was walking straight towards my brothers and I. “She’s almost mannish!”

“Your rudeness is only matched by your ridiculous standards, Alexandros,” Hector growled. He only called Paris ‘Alexandros’, when he was upset with him. Which was most of the time. “Not every lady can equal your stolen bride if any.”

I didn’t hear Paris’ sharp retort. I was too busy staring at the lady, for I knew her. It was the face I’d seen in the goblet. I recognized the full, pouting lips, promising an unbridled sensuality. There was a petulance to them, which I hadn’t seen in the vision. It warned of an overindulged nature. I recognized her curls, which were as yellow as buttercups. They escaped in wisps from her veil, instead of bouncing free above his shoulders.

This woman couldn’t be the man I’d seen. Was it possible he had a twin sister? Her eyes were the deep blue of the ocean, when it was calm, nothing like the fiery gaze, which had captivated me in the vision.

Her head raised, turned, as if she was a hunting hound, catching the scent of a particularly juicy rabbit. Only the rabbit she saw was me. She stared at me with an intensity, which darkened her blue gaze. Darkened it into something, which smouldered dangerously.

A shudder, very akin to the climax of passion gathered at my groin, climbing up through my body, only there was no release to satisfy me. I met this familar lady’s gaze with equal boldness, for she had to be a lady. The proud lift of her chin had the lack of regard of one born to it.

Cressida or Andromache would have looked away. This lady did not. My boldness intensified her own stare, which fixed itself upon me. A possessive heat enlargened her black pupils, as her eyes moved over my face, my neck, my chest, lingering upon my bare legs, playing teasingly about my privates and bum, before returning to meet my eyes.

I swallowed, as my own eyes moved over her, but her long skirts, draping tunic, and veil didn’t reveal as much of her as my short tunic revealed of me. Her gaze was akin to a physical caress. Every inch of me had been explored by her dark blue eyes.

“Troile, what’s wrong with you?” Hector asked. Concern, as well as ever ready reprimand waited upon his lips. Concern that another one of his siblings was going to grow up wild and irresponsible in his passions.

It was irritating, almost as irritating as Paris’ reaction to the strange lady, who had almost reached the three of us. Paris was recoiling, as if she were somehow repellant. Her presence loomed over us, as if she was an approaching wave. Rising, cresting, beautiful with the gathering foam, even as it was about to crash upon you. It might knock you flat, but you could help gazing upon it in awe.

Paris saw no beauty in the waves, or anything else which might knock him flat. This woman, whose pouting lips were bending into an inviting smile, held no appeal for him. She was too tall, too bold, too mannish. Her skirts revealed no dainty display of ankle. I could have cared less about her ankles. My heart beat a little faster with each step of her powerful stride. It was as if her stride and my heart were connected. Once she stopped walking, my heart might stop as well.

The lady did stop, right in front of the three of us; Hector, Paris, and I. My heart didn’t stop, on the contrary. It clamoured within my chest, as if crying out. It was a marvel no one could hear it.

My admirer, for I felt entitled to name her as such, barely looked at Paris. Her deep blue eyes were fixed upon me, feasting upon my face. She’d devour me in large chunks, if given half a chance. Part of me was more than happy to allow her to do so.

The other part of me reminded myself that I was a Trojan prince, nearly a man. Princes did not allow themselves to be devoured. I raised my chin with pride equal to hers, swallowing my submissive passion.

My arrogant response didn’t discourage my admirer, oh no. A golden eyebrow, thicker and darker than the curls upon her head, arched up, as if she approved of my aloof response.

This was truly mannish, the approbation of a lover, who sought to court me, impressed by my virtuous reluctance. A part of me relaxed, recognizing the game, even as every other part of me was almost singing with tension.